


His Robes Are Ultramarine

by Glossolalia



Series: Like Crystal Guts [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Coming of Age, Fluff and Angst, Hoe!Lance, M/M, Oral Sex, Personal Growth, Rope Bondage, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex Work, Sex Work Positive, Skateboarding, Sugar Daddy, Surfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: "Don't let him walk away, Keith. Don't be me."All Lance ever wanted was to be a professional skater. Using an app to find sugar daddies to make ends meet while pursuing his dreams, one of Lance's patrons worms his way into his heart and teaches him both the meaning of 'enough' and that 'it's okay to sink beneath the water as long as you're still fighting to find the surface.'Part II to Like Crystal Guts.A prologue and epilogue.





	

### I.

" _Don't let him walk away, Keith. Don't be me."_

And Lance is thinking about hindsight.

He's thinking about the day his best friend left for the airport to be with the man he loves, and he's thinking about the day he lost the opportunity to do the same. He's thinking about what it means to find yourself through someone, and he's thinking about whether or not that cheapens the authenticity of self-actualization. He's thinking about people who die alone and love it, and he's thinking about people who can't reach the top shelf without calling on their partner, even though the stepping stool is waiting at their ankles.

He's thinking about how you can love someone before you love yourself.

He's thinking about how there's still a fine line.

He's thinking about how maybe he drew that fine line, and how maybe, it didn't even need to exist in the first place.

Lance is thinking.

Lance is thinking about Hunk.

" _What do you mean you fucked it up? You told me he fucked it up."_

" _I didn't mean to."_

" _Lance, what did you do?"_

It begins somewhere, he decides.

For him, it began in a tub. It began underwater.

" _It's you and the ocean, Lance."_

### II.

Lance was a bath taker. Whether or not this determined something about one's personality like the Myers Briggs or alignment quiz, he didn't know. What he _did_ know was that when the world was growing in excess, he cranked open the faucet to his white porcelain tub and crouched beside the rim to watch, arms lazily dangling over the edge and fingers stretching for the rising water level.

The claw foot tub stood in the corner of his closet for a bathroom, and Lance still remembered when he stepped into the apartment two days before his eviction elsewhere. As soon as he'd seen the peeling wallpaper and the busted tiling in front of the baby gas stove, he'd suspected cockroaches with a side of meth. He'd aimlessly plucked the broken blinds and checked beneath a picture frame for bedbugs. He'd listened to the landlord scratch open her psoriasis and talk about the dead body she'd found two weeks prior.

" _I called the police three times, honey. I called them three times and they still wouldn't take him off the stoop. It's bad business. Almost as bad as leaky ceilings. Getting rid of a body is just less expensive, though."_

The landlord then ushered him into the recently redone bathroom, knowing the subway tiles and clean pedestal sink were its selling points.

" _Cool tub."_

" _It's an original, baby."_

Original of _what_ Lance couldn't say. He thought about the bodies that'd been strung up and drained, so maybe an original in the sense that it was original to a series of onsite murders.

Its lion paws were elegant but with a kind of abstract sense of humor Lance could appreciate. After signing the lease, Pidge referred to the apartment as a ' _residential abortion_.' Lance couldn't contest this. She'd been utilizing self-awareness more than critique. Pidge lived two buildings away and hadn't washed a dish in three months. Just recently Lance had slept in her bed and ran his thumb along ambiguous stains, pressed fallen seeds beneath his nails and collected them before flicking them onto the hardwood. The tub was in the middle of all of the filth, though. The porcelain mockery of resplendence was there.

Lance always explained jokes to himself.

Behind the tub stood a window with sand in the glass. The grit obscured the cornflower sky and the way the sun collapsed into the horizon line like blistering iron into cool water. It made the world beyond his tilted apartment building seem out of reach, much farther away than he knew it to be.

" _I wish you'd just move back home."_

" _Momma, don't worry. I've got money. It's nothing I can't handle."_

" _Dinner, then. You'll come over for dinner."_

" _This Sunday. I'll be there."_

" _I'll send you home with groceries."_

" _Momma…"_

" _Don't talk back to me."_

He didn't have money.

Life was a lot. It was nothing he'd imagined as a child.

His bathtub was the private ocean where he slipped beneath the surface and reminded himself he was human and couldn't breathe in without dying. Lance understood he had to fill himself with surface elements to sustain, but there was something about the gurgle of air pulling from his ear canals that felt like home. Sometimes he opened his eyes but the world warbled above him and his fingers opened and closed. This was always when he began mouthing, letting the soapy water drain toward the back of a closed throat—along his tongue—like a punishment. He mimed mantras of self-preservation.

IT WILL BE OKAY  
YOU WILL FIND YOU  
THIS ISN'T FOREVER

He shut his eyes. His fingers relaxed.

Lance remembered an era when he still felt capable. Capable had long since escaped him. On some philosophical note, he understood capable was subjective, but also, there was a pattern, a common denominator that appeared in every "capable" person's formula. At first, capable was a kickflip, taking a daring leap off the local bank's staircase and landing with a celebrated glide so smooth his skin rippled in satisfaction. It was a scraped deck and the chatter filled moments of sitting on a public sidewalk while vigorously rubbing wax against his board's belly. It was kick-pushing his way into competitions and falling in love every time his face dragged along cement, tearing him open and altering the pigment of is nose with dusty scar tissue.

CAPABLE – Where did she go?

FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT BUT I JUST BECAME FAKE

From beneath the water, Lance heard his phone chime. He rubbed at his temples and continued to hold his breath until his lungs reverted to napalm. He clapped his hands against the rim and tugged himself forward. Water sloshed, rising over the sides like daring waves but receding. He breathed in deep.

It chimed again.

He grabbed the towel perched on the stool where he kept his phone and can of beer. Lance dried his hand and snatched the phone, sinking against the back of the tub and turning on the hot water with his toes. The Pal-and-Din app's notifications stared back at him, but Lance checked the profile before bothering to read what the client had to say. He looked at profile pictures first. If he couldn't stomach the face, then he couldn't stomach replying to the client. He'd been told before this was why he still lived in aforementioned ' _residential abortion_ ,' but he figured none of it mattered if he couldn't play pretend enough to get it up.

 

> HUNK GARRETT  
>  27, 230 LBS, 6'0  
>  BRWN EYES. BROWN HAIR.  
>  ENTREPENEUR  
>  SPECIALIZING IN BRANDING

The name was familiar. Lance wasn't sure how, but he used the app so much he supposed it could have either been a repeat client or a mental hiccup. He checked the profile picture and was neither discouraged nor impressed. He supposed someone's back facing the camera while he peered at the ocean with both hands on his hips wasn't telling, but the man was large and dense with black tribal tattoos wrapped around his pronounced biceps. His hair wasn't grey, but rather, dark brown and swept back from either saltwater, pomade or both. Lance hoped it was both. He was a fan of hair products and general high maintenance.

Good hygiene aside, the real perk was the probability the guy's balls didn't bottom out to his knees.

Lance checked the time and considered what was on television that night. God forbid he miss his _Roseanne_ reruns, but rent was around the corner and he'd spent a chunk of what he'd saved on new Nikes. He'd told himself not to, but capitalism was an even bigger minx than he was.

_Do it for the cable bill. Do it for the name brand macaroni and cheese and upgraded data plan you told yourself you could handle. Do it for Jose Cuervo and premade margarita mixes. Do it so that Keith can't hit you with another 'I told you so.' The smug motherfuc—_

He opened the app's chat client and started to read, mindlessly reaching for his beer and flitting his gaze across the screen.

> **@surfnturf** : what's cookin' good lookin'
> 
> **@surfnturf** : that's probably too forward
> 
> **@surfnturf** : what's shakin' sliced bacon
> 
> **@surfnturf** : definitely not any better

He grinned and sipped before turning off the running water. Lance contemplated his answer but paused to ponder on what could be wrong with the picture. Twenty-seven was young for a Pal-and-Din client. Thirty-two was the youngest he'd seen, and that in itself had been an enigma he'd ignored when it messaged him. Lance shrugged more for himself than anything and followed it with a dismissive ' _eh_.' He started typing.

> **@m-80** : what's the story, morning glory?

The following pause made Lance wonder if the man had said his piece and moved on. He considered sinking beneath the water again, but the three little dots informed him Hunk was replying. 

> **@surfnturf** : i can't believe that didn't scare you off.
> 
> **@m-80** : it's chill. i have a preference for bad pickup lines that inspire shame.
> 
> **@surfnturf** : whoa. so what void have you been in all my life?

Lance groaned at that, but the groan settled into a laugh. He hated himself for it and rubbed along his jawline instead. There was stubble accumulating. He needed to shave.

> **@m-80** : the void that's the bathtub i'm totally shriveling up in right now.
> 
> **@surfnturf** : bathtub?

He didn't hesitate to open the camera and hold out his phone, turning on the face lens. Lance pointedly refrained from showing his actual face in the picture and held up a victory sign that barely covered the goods. What mattered was the fact his body had the slightest sculpt the defied all logic behind his every other day preference for nacho-style fries. They were sold along the boardwalk he and his friends spent their free time terrorizing via skateboards and rollerblades, and when he paused to nosh, he bought an accompanying Slurpee that stained his tongue blue.

Lance made sure the picture was flattering, added a filter that made his skin glitter, and sent it. If there was one thing about himself he liked, then it was his physical appearance. He pampered it.

> **@surfnturf** : i can't deal with this amount of success in one week. peace out.
> 
> **@m-80** : just sending you proof. i'm a man of my word. no fantasies here.
> 
> **@surfnturf** : do you have time to hang tonight? i get it if you don't. you're way high ranked so i have no expectations but it's a thought. a thing. i'm only in town for a couple weeks.

This happened a lot. Men drifted in and out of town and heard about the regional app. A majority of Lance's clientele were men who only visited his dreary east coast city on business trips. They told him about their wives, their children, commented on the changing leaves and then fucked his throat.

Lance took a picture of his beer by the tub and sent it. 

> **@m-80** : i've got time. what did you wanna do? ever been here before?
> 
> **@surfnturf** : uh that would be a negative. i'm from pearl city. central oahu. this is all business for my old man. i am so out of my element here, dude. people wear north face. i thought that was valium popping suburban mom lore, but it's real. too real.
> 
> **@m-80** : too real. try living around it. there's this bar near the boardwalk. it's a dive, but it's a cool place and the music isn't lame. i'll send you the address. got a time?
> 
> **@surfnturf** : rad. 10.

Lance hoisted himself out of the tub. He fixed his damp friendship bracelets and wrapped the towel around his waist, tracking water to the sink and creating puddles that might have been death wishes. Lance swiped the fog from the mirror and leaned forward to rub both sides of his roughened face. He tugged open the medicine cabinet door and grabbed a new razor and shaving cream. He was going to drown himself in top shelf moisturizer and find something off his bedroom floor to wear. This duality made sense to him. It paid the bills.

> **@m-80** : grey beanie and camo jacket. it'll be casual.

He sent the address and forgot to drain the tub.

### III.

An even earlier stepping off point was a child puking –

Puking would be an understatement. From Lance's prime seat, it was more like a projectile vomit heard around the world.

In the most meager sense, Lance was a pro-skater. This sounded better than it actually was. He was sponsored by a local skate brand, but he hadn't yet stepped into a corporate scenario or team that fully paid rent. He skated at competitions, wore the shop's brand, got his liquor paid for and was left to his own devices. People loved him, and for Lance, that was enough. Enough didn't pay the bills, though.

Before falling face first into the Pal-and-Din app, he'd worked at The Voltron. It was a pizzeria and joint arcade establishment that fostered both birthday parties and a ball pit Lance wouldn't have held a UV light to if his life depended on it. Most importantly and unfortunately, it had alien animatronics and mascots that sang songs. Lance wasn't one to judge lifestyle choices, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the only two people who volunteered to wear the costumes had indecent exposure charges against them.

Overall, he hated the place on principle. It cramped his style. He loved his siblings and because of that he was good with children, but it was the parents that made the job miserable. With every birthday there was a mother in Vera Bradley who stank of 'apple walnut salad and a Diet Pepsi.' They always screamed.

As a means to retain self-control, Lance spent a lot of time tuning angry parents out by internally screaming either Chumbawamba's _Tubthumping_ or the Barenaked Ladies' _One Week_ until wind whipped through his brain. The amount of times he'd recited ' _chickity China the Chinese chicken_ ' like a prayer had long since forsaken its numerical value for 'a lot' and 'too often.'

But back to puking.

He'd been standing at the prize kiosk, chewing on his third pack of Now & Laters when he watched an unassuming little boy approach Zarkon (aka the one with the fuzzy purple tentacles). At first, Lance assumed the approximate seven-year-old was going in for the kill. Kids either hugged the aliens or cried when they saw them, which Lance found an exorbitant amount of solidarity in. Instead of hugging, the squatty baby person paused in front of Zarkon and waited, examining the 'misunderstood villain' with a deer-in-headlights gaze Lance would have referred to as 'dead' on an actual adult.

"Hey there, little paladin."

Choice famous last words in Lance's opinion.

What came after was theJackson Pollock of vomit. Having only finished a piece of cake with neon purple and yellow frosting, the little boy burped once, breathed in and ejected a multicolored fountain of Sierra Mist that would've made Regan MacNeil jealous. The colors continued to paint the creature's thighs like a study of _Number 1 (Lavendar Mist),_ fully realized and ready for the class's critique. The spewing ended with the boy wailing and an ex-cheerleader mother sprinting through a table maze. Lance recognized the death of Zarkon through art. Up until that point, he'd thought they could remove any stain from Zarkon be it pizza sauce, a toddler's urine or even the accidental run in with WD-40.

… _see you space cowboy._

 _Don't call it cool_ , he warned himself. _Don't be that person._

Too bad Lance was that person; heart and soul.

"That was pretty sick!" he cheerfully called from the booth, leaned over and unwrapping a fruit punch flavored chewy candy. He popped it into his mouth. "Ten out of ten, buddy! You destroyed the evil!"

Hearing him, his manager screamed Lance's name from the nearby kitchen door. Lance ignored said authority and appreciatively watched Zarkon waddle toward the Employees' Only door squirreled away behind the stage curtains. He quietly laughed to himself, whistling in disbelief. Before he could open another piece of candy, his shoulder was tapped once, twice and then firmly gripped.

Gloves and a can of pet deodorizer appeared beside his wrapper pile with a sharp smack.

"Clean Zarkon."

Lance didn't clean Zarkon.

" _If you need money, then I can tell you how I get by."_

" _Mysterious Keith finally owning up to his bank account? I never thought I'd see the day. Let me guess. You're in on that black market organ selling gig. It's why you're so skinny. You've replaced your guts with spite and coffee."_

" _I wish."_

### IV.

His blue high tops stood on the edge of weathered wood panels. Hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, Lance overlooked the ocean's frothing mouth, eyes half-lidded in thought. The waves spat toward him as if scolding him, but for what he didn't know. He supposed it could be a culmination of things, such as the fact he was about to exchange his dick's function for money, but that was a minor issue in the grand scheme of his problems. It was a job like any other job, and for some reason, he was good at it. Either way, Lance couldn't shake the inherent tone of his catholic upbringing, the endless rush of failure that made him feel like he was rounding the bend. Be it piousness or freedom, he didn't know why he couldn't get _something_ right.

The bar was beachside, thirty paces to his left. Named 'NO FUN,' Lance was certain the dive would go down as a fossilized site for archeologists to pluck at before being recreated as sugar cube models in class. It was fairy lights and unsystematically placed flyers for wallpaper. Dusty taxidermy fish hung from the ceiling, were nailed to the walls, and every table stood roughened by carved signatures and graffiti from generations who had filtered in and out. It was nautical meets Iggy Pop, and it was a place that's popularity shifted with the tides of aesthetic. NO FUN had barely made it out of the early-2000s alive. Beyond that, it was a successful hub for anyone with enough money and pseudo-aloofness to appear cool, drink craft beer and pour sriracha on tacos.

A rush of briny wind swept the hair along Lance's forehead, and with a thoughtless shiver, he turned and strode inside.

At the approach of crowded doors, murmurs swelled. Lance pushed them open and was all at once submerged beneath the weight of chatter. He kept his phone in palm, anticipating his client's struggle to find him, and sought out space along the sardined bar. He found a spot to shoehorn himself into and ordered a beer. Lance had only just broken the habit of overdrinking with clients as a means to lose himself in the moment. He could skate with a hangover, but not when the hangover lasted five days out of the week.

Lance had only just turned from the bartender when there was a tap on his shoulder.

"Are you Lance?"

The voice was young, light enough that Lance expected it to be someone he knew from local competitions, but that wasn't the case. He turned himself toward the man who'd prodded him only to find himself looking up.

_Mary Mother of God._

_Now this is a sign._

In the world of Pal-and-Din there were no expectations. Lance had quickly discovered this fact. This was why, upon seeing Hunk's face, he was rendered silent. The crowd was loud, the music louder, but Lance was at the mercy of his own cinematic moment where the air stilled and he became conscious of breathing.

Hunk Garrett.

The name couldn't have been anything but well-placed irony because he exuded the namesake's most inner-definitions. Hunk was blunt, a hard word that hissed from the back of throat. Hunk implied handsome and made Lance think about solid body beneath fleshy skin. Pliable meat beneath fingers.

"Yeah," Lance said, a regular paradigm of grace and charisma.

Hunk smiled and easily said, "Cool."

His face was gentleness fabricated like well-carved marble. It was an illusion sold expertly by almond eyes that took on warmth as if said marble had been planted beneath the sun. Full lips, dark brows expertly groomed to appear impeccably messy and hair long enough to sit swept back beneath a mustard beanie; he was a hulking mass of a man with an apparent strength Lance compared to Atlas. Hunk could have easily grabbed him by the throat and flung him over the moon, right past Mars. All these intimidating subsets were filtered out by the tinge of amusement accompanying Hunk's cocked eyebrow. He was observing Lance.

This was a particular attractiveness that made Lance want to dig his nails into his palms. It was unbearable, heavy on the chest.

It was excessive thought he wasn't sure he understood.

He'd dissect it in the bathtub at some point.

Lance steadied himself. "Then you're Hunk."

Hunk suddenly smiled, almost as if the sound of Lance's voice appeased some part of him. Lance wasn't entirely sure what to think of that, and Hunk didn't give him time to. "Yeah. That'd be me."

Lance parted his lips in an attempt to say something. Words failed him, as they tended to, and his nose burned with heat. He cleared his throat and laughed in spite of himself.

"Do you want a drink?" Lance asked. His beer hit the bar beside his wrist. "We could grab a table or something. Unless you wanted to leave now, which is cool…"

_Like, please do me, dude._

"Uh, table. Sure," Hunk said and reached for his wallet, still smiling as if his own thoughts were funny enough to lighten the mood. Lance didn't let his stare do more than flit, but he noticed the black credit card. The American Express Centurion Card was a relic better left to the Old Gods. Keith had told him to keep an eye out for it. Only when he saw it could he bribe a man for shopping. Lance didn't care much for shopping offline.

Hunk's easiness carried to a table on the far end of the bar. There was no getting around the noise, but Lance preferred that. The idea of being overheard made his stomach churn.

When Hunk sat down, Lance realized he was wearing a leather jacket over his hoodie. For someone who never traipsed on the Northeast, Lance decided he looked pretty damn acclimated.

Leaned over his beer, Hunk didn't pause on the chance to speak first. "Okay, real. Let me be real. I don't know what I'm doing here."

It was a blazingly honest opener. Lance had heard that line before, though. Nine times out of ten, it was a lie. He lifted his palms toward the ceiling and shrugged, mouth twisting to the side. "Don't overthink it. I don't think you have to know why you want something like this. If it calls for you, then it calls."

"Nah, no. No. I don't mean _why_. I mean _what_. I don't know what to do."

_Oh. Huh._

"Rules," Lance said after a stunned moment, echoing Keith.

King of mentors, that one.

"Rules, those things," Hunk confirmed. "Guidelines. Procedures. Codes – give me your creeds, your sacred writings."

He playfully reached for his phone and opened his Kindle app. Lance lifted a finger. "One second, let me send you a link to The Hoecake Scripture. You can buy it on Amazon for like 99 cents."

Hunk snorted over the rim of his mug.

Lance didn't like to set boundaries until sex was explicitly mentioned. Naïve in his hopefulness, there were days when he was tired enough to hope maybe someone really did want to buy his company. It was a wish never realized, but Lance didn't have the capacity to give up on much.

"Finding the book is taking too long. Tell me what you do first," Lance said, diverting and closing his app. "Branding or whatever. I read it on your profile. It's like marketing, right?"

Hunk was relieved by the icebreaker. He sipped from his own glass and thought on how to explain himself. "My dad owns the rights to some bigger brands. I'm his oldest so I've been working with him since I was about – twenty-two? Feels like eons ago, but after I graduated from Duke, essentially…"

_Duke._

_Holy shit._

"Did you major in business? Con Artist School?"

Hunk shook his head. That question was all it had taken to make him involved. "No way. Marine biology is the jam. Anyway, everyone knows Con Artist School is advertising."

"Harsh."

He shrugged, continuing to be matter-of-fact. "Anyone who can turn a color into a manipulator for capitalism has it coming. They've earned my certified guillotine."

Lance remembered his beer and sipped, leaning back. He lazily crossed a leg over a leg, and when his Nike pressed to Hunk's shin, he didn't move it. Hunk appreciatively pressed against it and they avoided eye contact. "And you're hanging out here for two weeks why?"

"Overseeing some new stores we just built. It's really lame, but there's more on the itinerary for me. Still brand associated, but it'll be cool. I'm taking a trip to Taghazoute directly after this. It'll be worth it." Hunk shifted his gaze from Lance's beanie and toward his camo parka. He eyed the brand splayed across his shirt with a finalizing hum and Lance noticed how his brain started to tick. "Rude question. Is this all you do, dude?"

"Nope," Lance said, eyes never leaving Hunk's face. His smile parted and he inhaled to make it smug. "But I can't tell you what else I do."

"I don't think you'd have to. I know your type."

Lance's nose twitched, lips flattening into a line. He barked his next words. " _Right_. What's that supposed to mean?"

"For starters, your name on the app is M-80. That's a skateboard trick. Unless you have a thing for explosives, of course, which is kind of majorly against my code of ethics. Granted it could be a suspended metaphor about what you do to people in bed, but I don't know for sure yet."

_Yet._

Lance planted a hand over his heart and animatedly shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And that is some shoddy lying, my man."

He retained his smile. "Who are you again?"

"Hunk."

"You know what? I hope you're having fun paying to give me shit."

"Actually, I totally am."

Lance decided he could handle this kind of flirting.

"Whatever, dude," he said and swallowed another gulp of pale ale.

Hunk grinned at the dismissiveness. He leaned forward, planting his chin on a raised fist and narrowing his gaze in on Lance. Lance habitually bristled when Hunk shifted his leg so that Lance's foot hooked beneath his knee, and he exhaled a quick puff of air when the heat in his guts shouted.

"Do you know why this area has a strong skating scene even though the east coast is reputably bad at skating?" Hunk asked, clearly already having his answer for Lance prepared. Lance shrugged, pretending he had no idea what a skateboard was at that point. The way he shifted his gaze from Hunk's face and visibly swallowed his ' _fuck you_ ' gave him away as much as his terrible lying. Hunk was baiting him. "You had two major legends come out of here in 2003. People think that if you sniff the air enough it'll make you a good skater, which happens everywhere and in everything. Academia, art, yada-yada. People vibe the world, which is cool. I do, too, but skill doesn't work that way. Fifteen years later and you only have maybe three decent pros because they gave up on style and skate like robots. Robotic skating is the best. Style is the least of anyone's concerns, you know?"

He didn't know. Lance loved style. The crowd loved style.

"You're a know-it-all, man."

"I part-time went to private school in LA," he said, poking fun at himself.

"That's some bloated living," Lance murmured, the distaste evident only because Hunk was close in age.

"That's another reason east coast skaters can be lame. You've got to get over the idea that skaters are even remotely counterculture anymore. It's the two thousand and tens, man. Skaters are conservative at large—and uh, generally? They're terrible people because they're trying to be anti-whatever seems straight and narrow. You're only as special as you skate, which is hard enough to make special even at its most special."

Lance shifted his other leg closer and raised an eyebrow when Hunk grabbed his knee. He smiled. "You're making it hard for me to tell if I actually like you or not."

"Rad—that's fair, but I'm still paying you to listen to me talk."

Lance swiped his thumb across his nose, almost forgetting he was supposed to suck the man's dick at some point. "Okay, so you skate?"

"Sometimes. I did it way more when I was younger. After your mid-twenties, it's kind of hard to keep up with if you haven't gone pro."

"Preaching to the choir."

Lance snapped his tongue between his teeth.

Frighteningly perceptive, Hunk caught the slip and rolled back his shoulders. He devoured Lance's annoyed expression, brain ticking. "What's your last name?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"That's fair," Hunk said evenly. "But I think I know that, too."

Lance decided he had to remember how to have an engaging conversation. He was being too casual with Hunk. Skating wasn't going to get anyone laid. "Why marine biology?"

He wasn't sure why he thought fish would either.

"Aside from growing up by and in the ocean," Hunk began, pausing to think, "it's like understanding things that are bigger than you. I'm objectively terrified of the ocean. There are things down there the devil himself doesn't wanna touch, but it's one of the few parts of Earth humans don't bother trying to control. Those who study oceans aren't there to harness oceans. I think that's kind of why deep-sea ecology rang loud. It's removed from this belief that you can own anything in the universe that isn't yourself."

Lance cleared his throat. "Real."

"Do you have hobbies?" Hunk asked.

"Painting," Lance said without missing a beat. "Not the kind that sucks, though. Like, you know how old dudes can't skate anymore so they try and make skateboard art? I've been doing this since I was a kid."

"Do you have pictures of it?"

Lance nodded and reached for his phone, but he paused. He needed to move them from the bar and get them toward a place where sex could happen. He needed money. "There's some of it beneath the boardwalk, along the beach. Right outside, actually. The city wanted to paint over it, but then didn't because it's personality or whatever. It's got a fancy plaque I made someone graffiti over the day after the city put it there."

Hunk flitted his look down to his half-full glass. "Can I see it?"

"Right now?"

He chugged the rest of his drink and only paused to ask, "Why not?"

Put on the spot, Lance suddenly was awash with self-doubt. There was the chance what he saw in his work Hunk wouldn't see. The man was educated, and it wasn't like Lance to discuss himself with clients. This was a record span between greetings and a hard discussion about where he would and wouldn't put his asshole.

"It's not that good," Lance warned.

"I'll be the judge of that."

They grabbed bottles of beer to-go and wandered outside. Lance turned on a heel and walked backwards in front of Hunk, telling him about the area's dos and don'ts. Good places to eat followed _his_ code of ethics and then he 'bitched' about the weather until they reached the top of the stairs that led down to a soaked beach.

"Please don't fall down the stairs," Hunk said as Lance descended backward. He cautiously reached out for him, bringing back his fingers when he realized it wasn't his place to babysit Lance.

"It's chill –" Lance reassured him and continued his thought after a swig. "I don't know why people move here. Like, the whole fucking sky needs to take Prozac. This is New England, not the Northwest. I haven't seen the sun in twenty-seven years, Hunk. Twenty-seven years. My children have children."

"There are so many inconsistencies there."

"You're wrong. We've ripped seams in time."

Hunk laughed. It was a sound that could fill an empty room.

Lance didn't think he was that funny and scratched his head, smiling to himself.

The waves continued to crash toward their right. Along the raised boardwalk, stark white light bled into the smoggy grey below. It cast a spotlight along the cement walls, but the light filtered out into a misty grain the closer to the ocean it reached. The air was heady from rotten seaweed, but Lance had grown up breathing it in and thinking about the meaning of home and his favorite pizza joint only five minutes down the way.

 _No big deal_ , he told himself when Hunk's fingers skirted along his lower back to keep him from eating shit on wet sand. This was where it always started. Small touches. Gestures of affection pruned just right to refrain from crossing immediate boundaries. Boundaries only disappeared in the dark unless otherwise specified, but then again, that was mainly Lance's clientele. Occasionally, weird things happened.

" _Today someone asked me to be a piece of furniture with his girlfriend today."_

" _Did you do it?"_

" _Yeah. I was a table for two hours. He put his coffee on my ass and read a magazine. You know, you learn a lot about yourself when you're a table."_

" _Imagine that. Someone put me in a locker once."_

" _Keith, dude, how did you know he wouldn't kill you?"_

" _I didn't, but he had kids, so I figured they'd be back from school before he could properly clean up a body. The pay was good. The bruises were weird."_

They meandered along the endless concrete slab for a wall, and it became apparent Hunk truly had no capacity for the cold. His nose instantly turned red, and the hand that wasn't holding his bottle was pushed into his jacket pocket. Hunk sneezed, and though Lance was sure it was too soon for him to catch a cold, he snorted at the thought. He only removed his hand from the pocket when they arrived at Lance's painting.

"Is this _yours_?" Hunk asked, their steps slowing to an amble. "All of it?"

Lance scratched at his jawline and stopped beside Hunk's halted form. "Sure is."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but where I come from, we call this a mural."

"No," he countered. "It's just something I did."

The 'something' was a tribute to late 80s mecha cartoons interwoven with a melted stylization inspired by the designs Lance had grown up staring at along his decks. It depicted a Transformers-like robot roundhouse kicking a mammoth jade tentacle beast over the edge of the known Solar System. The monster was headed in the direction of the sun, and from the looks of the straight laced composition, whatever evil it was had been defeated. It was an amalgamation of color. The robot's limbs and head were each individual colors; dandelion yellow, commanding sapphire, a leafy green that leveled the head's black helmet and red right arm. In the bottom right corner there was the gaudy blue tag L30, and from the second his eyes had landed on the work, Hunk hadn't let them go elsewhere. Every detail was worth a glance.

"How long did this take?" Hunk asked, stepping ahead of Lance to get a better look.

"A very long two weeks this past summer. I did most of it at night."

"No wonder the city kept it," he murmured. "Do you do this on canvas?"

"No way."

"That blows," he murmured. "I would've bought it off of you and put it in one of the stores."

Lance flinched. He wasn't sure why.

Hunk looked at him over his shoulder and finished his beer with the previously exposed chugging capacity. He tossed his and Lance's finished bottles into a recycling bin nearby and returned to the other man with a contemplative expression. The mood had shifted, and there were unspoken questions, roiling currents. Lance couldn't place the source of Hunk's sudden starry-eyed gaze, but it wasn't the unsettling leer he was used to. It was void of possessiveness and injected with a disbelief Lance couldn't read.

Hunk inhaled and cautiously reached for Lance's bicep. Knowing what was to come, Lance didn't blink at the touch. He couldn't remember the last time his skin had rippled outside of skateboarding be it through disgust or some kind of half-assed attempt at pleasure.

"This is cool."

Hunk reached for Lance's chin, and with a furrowed brow, examined the anatomy of Lance's face, thumb touching along his narrow chin while the other smoothed across a scar Lance had quit seeing years ago. The progression of pink skin to a subtle stain had entirely been lost on him. It was almost as if he'd woke up one day and the crash along cement stairs had never happened. Even the memory of his clavicles shattering had dimmed to nothing but the jokes in the emergency room, the nurse with bitten-to-blood nails.

Hunk leaned in and hesitated.

"This is fine?"

"Stop being polite, man. Your bank account, remember?"

"No can do."

Lance reached for his shoulder and tugged him closer, mouth opening on contact in a commanding fervor Hunk hadn't expected. There was a hesitant pause, but Lance caught the back of Hunk's neck, fingers pressing into the cooled skin to anchor him. Only when Hunk's wide shoulders deflated did Lance manage the kind of smile that could tame a shark. He tilted his head, brushing their noses with a comfortable hum, and after a pithy inhale, Lance captured the side of Hunk's face with a weak ' _hey_.' He tentatively swept his tongue along the tip of the man's, waiting for him to take the reins, but Hunk didn't bother to reach for them. He waited on Lance, waited for proper lines of sight, but Lance didn't give him any. It wasn't how this was _supposed_ to work.

"What do you want out of this?" Lance asked, pulling back from Hunk's mouth with a slight suck along his bottom lip. Hunk chased the kiss but stopped when Lance seemed to truly want an answer.

"Whatever you want out of this?" he asked.

"That's not how this works," Lance tried and realized his mouth was cold. He leaned in and attempted to kiss Hunk again, wanting the contact to keep out the ocean breeze. It was fleeting before Hunk spoke again.

"I told you I don't know what I'm doing."

Lance captured both of Hunk's biceps and pointedly walked him out of the light and toward the cement wall. There was the soft thud of a body smacking against the surface, and Lance sized Hunk up by pressing himself to his front, incredulously inspecting his shadowed features. They held one another's gaze, and Lance narrowed his stare as he thought about his options, what he should do with this unprecedented offering of innocence. He could upcharge. He could lie and swindle him into a situation where that black card mattered. Keith would have told him to do all those things and more. He would've told him to be his own boss and walk on that body pile.

" _You know what being nice gets you?"_

" _Friends."_

" _Evicted."_

"Nice eyes," Hunk said.

Lance's features softened and he looked away from Hunk. His brain croaked, and he coughed with a quick smack against his own chest. "Don't say shit like that."

He didn't mean it, and Hunk could tell he didn't mean it in the way he couldn't make eye contact. There was a pause and Hunk utilized his incredible strength to athletically spin them so that Lance's back hit the wall with enough force to push air out of his lungs. Lance didn't let go of his biceps, but he kept his eyes on the sand, and all the aloofness and good-humored annoyance had drained into a wrinkled nose and uncertainty.

"You have nice eyes," he repeated and dove down for another kiss Lance didn't deny. Lance shook his head to eat a smile, and when Hunk's mouth spread into a smile too, Lance muttered ' _weird-o_.' This didn't dither Hunk. He left the kiss and planted a fist above Lance's head. It was only then Lance realized he'd lost control of the situation. He thanked God. "They're a specific blue. Ever been to the Los Angeles Natural History Museum? There's this room full of gems. I went there when I was thirteen and that was the first time I saw lapis lazuli in person. Did you know that lapis lazuli is what they used to make the ultramarine pigment during the Renaissance? They'd paint the robes of angels and the Virgin Mary that color. That's what your shade of blue is. It's ultramarine. It's rare."

"You're talking about the Virgin Mary right now," Lance said, staring at him in disbelief. He tried to kiss him to work Hunk into distraction, but that didn't happen.

"Uh," Hunk started, lifting a finger as he kissed the corner of Lance's searching mouth, "wrong. I'm talking about the paint that depicted her robes. This is not a religious discussion."

"Better stick to the ocean," Lance said. "You'd make a pretty bad lawyer."

"I'll keep that in mind."

A siren wailed past overhead, and the pair stared at one another as it flashed past, bleeding red and blue onto their crowns. Lance blinked and the next words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think to catch them.

"You're too good looking to hire a whore."'

"I don't think personal aesthetic has a lot to do with it, but what are you doing tomorrow?"

Neither responded to the other's commentary or question. Lance tightly grasped onto the front of the man's shirt and tugged Hunk back into a kiss. With that assumed strength from before, Hunk reached beneath Lance's knees and hoisted him up with a weak grunt. The waves burned through any sounds they might've made, and the winter had all but murdered the beach's social life. Lance lazily wrapped an arm around Hunk's neck and his other nails dug deep into the leather along his back.

Shifting his weight, Lance ground his hips with an expert roll. He would've smacked his hand on the Bible to convince someone he hadn't meant to, but he supposed it didn't matter. It happened, and Hunk's hand pushed beneath the back of his jacket in reply, sending a chill up both sides of Lance's ribs both due to the ice-cold touch and the fact someone he wanted was touching him in response. Lance didn't know the man, but he kissed Hunk like he'd known him all his life. To miss someone he'd never met was an incredible feeling.

It could've also been the beer.

Either way, it was senseless. That said, senselessness brought Lance's mouth down the curve of Hunk's throat and his knees to the sand beneath Hunk's shoes. Senselessness made reaching for a stranger's belt and fishing out a condom a second thought, a damn near opportunity in a world Lance read like a copy of _Old Yeller_. Everywhere he turned the dog died in the end, and the outlook was beating his shoulders farther and farther down. Giving head to someone he was attracted to gave him peace of mind in a way Lance had forgotten existed.

"Right here?" Hunk asked, words thick as he reached for Lance's head.

Lance had done worse things in more public places. He ripped the square foil with his teeth, ignoring his numb nose, and held the rubber between his index and middle fingers as he shucked down Hunk's black jeans to reveal grey boxer briefs. Hunk planted a palm against the wall in front of him and exhaled through clenched teeth when Lance blew hot air against his hands and reached for the elastic. Hunk laughed in disbelief, but the disbelief tapered off into a weak groan when a flattened tongue dragged along his bulge, the damp breath from the back of Lance's throat fanning out along his exposed thighs. Hunk's chest rose, but instead of falling with a breath, he held the oxygen tight when the briefs were finally slid downward. Lance hummed and flicked his stare up in time to watch Hunk drag his teeth along his bottom lip.

"Nice," Lance muttered and flitted his stare down to Hunk's cock, the length bobbing daringly close to his mouth. Average in length but flushed a dark pink, it was the width that made Lance's tongue wet, his pulse gain speed. He was the first to admit he had a strong appreciation for men who were uncut, and because of this, he wrapped his fingers around the thick middle and stroked back the velvety foreskin. Hunk hissed, and Lance let his breath brush the bare skin. After admiring, he rolled on the condom. "Like, really nice, man."

"Thanks," Hunk raggedly breathed. "I think."

Face hot enough to short circuit his brain, Lance encircled his fingers around the base and shallowly pumped. He lifted and indolently swept the tip of his tongue along the course of the largest vein, slowly seeking out grooves and aching for the cock to hit his throat raw. It was the taste he missed the most. Lance couldn't remember the last time bare skin had touched his mouth, pounded into his tight throat. At the thought, his eyes grew lidded and his tongue brushed down. Lance caught onto one of Hunk's thighs to lock himself into the moment, and he mouthed the side of Hunk's length. He would never understand what made that density and heat along his lips so good, but it was real. It put his head in a hazed over place and he was suddenly willing to do anything.

"I would've done this for free," Lance muttered and opened his mouth to brush his lips along one of Hunk's balls. He savored the course hair on his peeking tongue and the warmth of the man's thigh knocking against his chin. With a long lick, Hunk's legs visibly tensed, and Lance wrapped his lips around one of the glands, sucking back and popping off with a wet disconnect. He did it again, switching sides to play fair, and he only paused to airily continue his previous thought. "So many people would do this for free, dude."

Hunk's hand landed on Lance's shoulder, knuckles smoothing along the side of his neck, and then the pads of roughened fingers swiped beneath his chin. Lance turned his head and passively dragged his tongue between two of Hunk's fingers in appreciation. He had the passing thought of wet fingers plunging inside of him and hooking him into a frenzy, but he let it go. If he could suck him off well enough, then that'd happen soon enough.

It was too familiar, but Lance kissed the tip before he parted his teeth, licked his top lip. His lower abdomen was tight, and he was hard behind tight pants, but there was nothing he could do but think about his client.

"I'm into it," Lance reassured him and tried to withhold his smile when Hunk pushed off Lance's beanie and slid his fingers into his hair. He lightly moaned and suckled the tip with his tongue pointedly pressing toward the concealed slit. Lance raised an eyebrow when Hunk's fingers gripped and pulled him closer. His shoulders lifted, and he closed his eyes. Lance's lips wrapped around the head, throat opening and nose flaring with steadying breathing. His palms climbed toward Hunk's waist, and he held beneath the jacket to keep his hands warm.

"Lance…"

His name. He _really_ liked the sound of his name on Hunk.

Hunk thrust forward. The width instantly brought tears to Lance's eyes, but the burn satisfied him, woke him up. He tightly gripped the fabric of Hunk's hoodie and drew back his head to meet Hunk halfway, noises becoming incoherent as heavy air built around his face and threatened to suffocate him. He choked, and the gag forced his lower abdominals to pleasantly contract. Eventually the thrusts grew shallow, consistent, and Lance swallowed around Hunk. He imagined the veins rubbing along his throat as Hunk's haggard breathing escalated, climbed that peak that would fill the condom and make Lance wish they were somewhere where he could let it release across his stomach. Hunk's cock twitched, and the grip on his hair tightened enough to hurt.

There was an undignified slurp. Lance couldn't save himself from the oncoming mess. Saliva escaped his mouth and rolled down his chin, streaking Hunk's thighs and his throat. Unable to help himself, Lance palmed between his thighs and considered jerking off on his knees. He wondered if Hunk would like it enough to bend him over against the mural. He wondered if he still had the packets of lube in his wallet.

"Slow down," Hunk warned, easing his thrusting hips. He attempted to push Lance back. "You're about to make this quick – "

Lance expertly pulled back his mouth and ignored the mess along his chin. There was no preamble to shucking off the precum slicked condom.

"On my face."

"Are you sure?" he asked, choking on a husky groan.

Lance opened his mouth. "I want it, Hunk. Come on me."

There was no further discussion of the matter. Lance eagerly fisted Hunk's cock until the man's throaty noises escalated into a forced silence. Hunk's body went rigid, and that was the only sign Lance needed before he anticipated the sudden spurt of cum. The warmth speckled his face, his flattened tongue, and Lance shivered in appreciation when Hunk rasped out a hard ' _fuck_.' He leaned forward to lick up whatever mess was left, the collecting brine and knowing he was canceling out the importance of the condom.

_God, you're disgusting._

Hunk groaned with an exhale when Lance sucked the tip clean, suddenly groaning in satisfaction.

_So disgusting._

He wished he cared more.

### V.

Lance woke to a fist beating against his front door.

This happened more so than not, but it was still something he classified as annoying.

"McClain!" The hammering pulsated through the wood, and with another call of his last name, Lance forced his eyes open. He was greeted by cloud-suffocated sunlight, the green numbers on his digital clock. "McClain, I swear to God!"

Scratching his happy trail through his disorientation, Lance rolled over for his phone and rubbed his fist against his nose. Like clockwork, he checked his Pal-and-Din app to make sure his money was there or to answer any missed clients with high rates.

He heard another voice. "Maybe we should break in? He could have finally killed himself."

"That's not funny."

"You're acting like I'm joking."

"There's a real risk!" Lance shouted back.

There was a pause as he stared at his app's balance. Lance jolted upward. He blinked and rubbed eyes, forsaking himself for not removing his contacts the night before. When he was sure his eyes were no longer the surface of Mercury, he darted his stare back to his balance and hacked up a lung. The shock chilled him, and he smacked his chest in time with the repeated beating against his door, trying to restart his heart. There were a lot of zeroes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen that many zeroes aside from Keith's account.

Lance cleared his throat and muttered ' _shit, son_.' He checked the chat client, but it was empty.

Disappointment.

While Lance knew it was too soon to be that disappointed, he couldn't help himself. Considering the climate of his life, good things were addictive. Any happiness was emblematically heroin.

"Lance, I swear to God!"

Pidge continued to smack the door in frustration. There was an accompanying bark Lance knew to be her mutt, Rover, and it was only at the commanding bark did he check the time on his phone. He was late, but he'd been later. Lance stumbled out of bed, into a pair of pants and unlocked his five deadbolts with systematic ease. The door swung open and Pidge stood before him with aforementioned Rover at her feet and a board tucked beneath her armpit. There was a surprise perched behind her. A very tired surprise.

Holding a cup of coffee and wearing sunglasses with mussed hair, Keith was smoking a cigarette and decidedly pale. Lance knew he hadn't slept. He was probably hungover. No. He was definitely hungover.

"Long night?"

"You're one to talk."

Lance grinned. "Want to see my bank account?"

"Later," Keith said and handed Lance his half-finished cup of coffee. "You're late."

"You drink it black."

"I added Splenda for you this time. Dirty, dirty Splenda."

"Still black," Lance muttered.

"Clothes!" Pidge yelled and waved her board in front of him before pointing down the hall toward the stairs. "I didn't climb those stairs to miss out on this. Have you seen that panel of judges? Some of us want good sponsorships."

For that, Lance pointedly took his time slurping his coffee. Pidge screamed.

It wasn't that Lance had forgotten, but as he did with everything, he kept his expectations low and his aloofness high. This was a defense mechanism for a culmination of disappointments he'd already endured throughout his relatively short life. Competitions were based on sponsor-bias or so Lance believed. He was a simple flow rider who was hyper-stylized and chickened out of every major hit in his run. What he lacked in confidence he made up for being good looking on a board, but good looking wasn't enough, and it was what made Lance think back to Hunk's scathing commentary about the east.

It wasn't the east coast. It was him.

It was delayed, but suddenly, Lance was pissed.

"Let's go," Lance said and changed shirts in the doorway.

In hindsight, Lance should've seen what was coming, but that's what makes hindsight hindsight. It also explained why, when he strode into the indoor skatepark with a number and Pidge at his side, he took one glance at the judge's table and stopped himself mid-step within a coursing crowd.

"I've got to leave."

Pidge raised an eyebrow, not looking at him. Rover licked her hand. "Don't chicken out when everyone's already seen you. You're a crowd favorite. What're you going to do when you can't revel in how first place was stolen from you again?"

Lance frantically glanced toward his friend. "I messed around with a judge."

A defining pause.

"You messed around with _who_?"

"Don't tell Keith."

"Don't tell Keith what?" Pidge paused and then squinted. The realization flooded her. "He's going to be so disappointed."

"I know. I don't care."

Pidge lifted a palm. "Then why aren't we telling Keith?"

Hunk was leaned over a mid-morning beer and coffee, discussing something with a fellow judge. Lance knew it was rude to stare, but he stared anyway, mouth unhinged in stunned surprise because he was just as good looking as he'd been the night before. Lance didn't answer quick enough for Pidge, and she scanned the judge roster on her informational paper before glancing toward the table being broadcasted on two massive screens. Pidge narrowed her eyes on the trio she had to pick from, and she side eyed Lance with skepticism. Lance didn't see her sidle up to him, and he jumped when she leaned against him.

"At least we know it wasn't Hunk Garrett. Did you know his dad owns the whole Nar line? He's a famous west coast judge and probably one of the best professional surfers _ever_. He got a better sponsorship with surfing, but he was a professional skateboarder about five years back. He's all over Red Bull right now."

Lance closed his eyes.

"I knew it," Pidge said, dulled to her friend's predicament. "It _would_ be Hunk Garrett. Big and meaty is your thing, isn't it? That's why you watch wrestling, right? You're an animal –"

"Pidge, shut up."

"Thick boys, McClain. What's the point if you can't wrestle with them, am I right?"

"I hope I die."

"In an alternate reality, this is when a ceiling pipe would fall on your head and kill you."

Hunk continued to be distracted by the job at hand, but after a moment of reading, something clearly caught the man's eye. He paused over his incriminating sheet of paper and lifted it for a co-judge to read. The judge nodded with a bit of a shrug, and there was a rapid fire discussion Lance couldn't hear over the thrashing music. Only after Hunk's initial surprise drifted did his gaze sweep across the the entirety of the skatepark. Lance didn't bother looking away. If his hunch was right, then Hunk had located his entry form, which regrettably included a picture of him half-drunk and posing with his cap spun backwards.

Hunk's gaze landed on him and Lance slowly looked away with a defeated exhale. He shifted his gaze back and Hunk pointed at him, mouthed ' _whoops_ ,' and with a thumbs up, followed it with a smile and ' _good luck_.'

He returned the thumbs up as if they were friends.

"You _did_ ," Pidge said, somehow blasé in the face of what Lance considered to be a tragedy.

"It doesn't change anything," Lance answered more for himself than her. "Except how he's going to probably be harder on me. None of these guys take it easy on their friends. They just pay attention to them more."

"But you're not his friend," Pidge said, matter-of-fact. "You put that skank mouth of yours somewhere he liked."

Lance didn't have a reply for that. He dropped his board, stepped on deck and skated toward a circle of familiar faces. Pidge followed his lead with a dissatisfied series of murmurs, but Lance blocked out the words.

It wasn't Lance's intention to take Hunk's advice when he pushed off onto the floor for his run. He didn't intentionally orient his half-Cab kickflip to lack his usual style, and Lance wasn't sure where his brain was when he decided to pursue said half-Cab kickflip with breakneck speed toward the bowl, but again, not intentional. In fact, throughout his handful of seconds between being on the ground and in the air all Lance could think about was how nothing he did was ever going to be good enough. Hunk was a client, and his side job was taking over the reality he'd once wanted for himself.

BREAK A LEG

BREAK A SPINE

MAYBE DIE  
I DON'T KNOW

Lance didn't mean to land the drop.

Lance didn't mean to land every trick after.

Lance didn't mean to hear 'First Place.'

" _It's about time, McClain."_

> **@M-80** : meet me at no fun after this. i've got words.
> 
> **@surfnturf** : you're not the only one, dude.

Standing at the judges' table, Hunk kept his stare on Lance who skated past him with the slightest glance. The two men shifted their mouths to the side, and Lance couldn't help his smile turning smug. Hunk watched him and kept a hand on his hip, his own smile soft and thoughtful.

### VI.

"Local legend Lance McClain."

Lance ordered his drink before acknowledging Hunk. Only after his first sip did he say anything. "Don't bleed this out everywhere."

"Do you know how not smart that'd be of me? You could wipe the floor with my reputation if you wanted to. Annihilation, think Dad having a holy fit. Oh, man. _Man_ , my life is totally in your hands right now."

Hunk winked, causing Lance to quirk an eyebrow and fight a grin. "Is this really how you flirt?"

"I've learned people really like it when you're at their mercy."

"Yo, that is kind of dark." Lance didn't notice how his lips finally split to reveal teeth.

Hunk swept his hand across the bar top. "My cards are on the table, buddy. I've got you if you've got me."

' _Buddy_ ' was a far cry from ' _slut_ ' and ' _whore_ ' and sometimes ' _baby boy_.' One time, Lance had even been called 'Wayne,' which he'd eventually discovered was the name of his patron's new middle-aged stepson. From what he'd gathered, Wayne was married with fraternal twins and worked as a physical therapist in the Garrison hospital district. The pining had gone on for five years, and Lance had apparently saved the man's marriage by being the surrogate for his affections. Wayne had saved Lance's bank account.

The point was Lance couldn't help but like being called something as casual as ' _buddy_.' It filled the space between them with a soft mist of nonchalance. Hunk was talented at curating spaces, moods. Lance knew building the atmosphere was supposed to be his job, but he wasn't like Keith in the way that Keith could making eating a bowl of mashed potatoes a dick throb. Lance was boyish charm, inelegance, and maybe even a little bit of innocence. Innocence in the way that a preoccupation with one's masculinity closed a hundred doors that is. He tried not to dissect it mainly because whatever it was worked enough.

"Your cards, huh?" Lance said and churned his ice with a straw. He smiled to himself. "I'm down."

"I'm Hunk Garrett," Hunk said and offered Lance his hand. "I'm a professional surfer, judge a lot of competitions and I own a share in Nar. Sometimes I study fish."

Lance squeezed his hand. "I'm Lance McClain. I'm a professional skater and I paint. Sometimes I suck dick for fast cash, but if I keep winning competitions like I did today, then that temporary gig might be over."

Hunk's expression softened. "You were awesome."

"I'm not like that all the time."

"I beg to differ."

Lance had to remember to let go of Hunk's hand.

"You saw me skate," he said and grabbed his drink. "Now let me see you surf."

They sat in the back of NO FUN with a phone and watched videos of Hunk surfing, thoughtlessly drinking through glass after glass and chewing on fries. The way Hunk spoke made it sound like surfing was second nature, everything but fantastical, but Lance watched video after video in awe. Hunk was a big wave surfer, and whenever Lance watched him ride fifty foot waves, a trill of panic hit him square in the chest.

He'd claimed to be afraid of the ocean, but Hunk was fearless.

"It makes me feel small," Lance said, reaching for another fry.

"But that's what makes it cool. We are small, but then we'll go do things like this simply because it calls to us. Passion, man. It makes all the sense in the world in the way that it makes no sense at all."

"You think about this kind of shit a lot, don't you?" Hunk shrugged and considered saying more, but Lance beat him to the punch. "I do, too. I just don't talk about it as well as you do."

"I figured," Hunk said.

Lance laughed, unintentionally sounding acrid. "Yeah?"

"It's written all over your face."

In hindsight, as this is the theme, Lance understood saw this moment as something he would never be able to take back. It was something Hunk and he could never walk away from.

### VII.

During the first two weeks Hunk was in town, Lance couldn't get enough. He wasn't sure what it was considering the stepping off point had been Hunk digging into everything he loved, but Lance didn't dare fight the urge to answer his messages, take his money or spend time in the man's hotel room.

" _Do you mind hanging out while I skate?"_

" _Not if you'll let me buy dinner afterward."_

" _Dinner is so real."_

" _I like listening to you talk."_

" _That was even realer."_

" _Tell me what's wrong with being real, Lance."_

Lance woke up to text messages, and if he hadn't heard from Hunk by three, then he sent text messages that were always responded to with genuine enthusiasm. With Hunk's insistence on paying for his company, Lance didn't have to think about clients other than the man and the time he dedicated to skating.

They went out, but Lance had to admit his favorite time with Hunk wasn't when he was grabbing the bill or asking Lance if he wanted something from whichever store they passed. It was behind closed doors. It was in spaces where he didn't feel the overwhelming urge to pretend he was one way or another.

" _Want me to hang with you while you skate?"_

" _We could talk instead. I like talking to you."_

It was fast friendship in the purest sense, but there was monetary gain, and with monetary gain, Lance found himself spending time on Hunk's hotel mattress. Hunk liked him on top, the way Lance shamelessly pounded onto his lap until he echoed Hunk's name with his hands in his own hair and abs burning. When Lance came on his stomach, it was Lance who volunteered to lick the mess clean. It was more than the bare act, though.

Lance wanted Hunk to get his money's worth.

"Do you do this a lot?" Hunk asked.

"Do you want me to answer that?" Lance countered, head bowed as he winced at the pinching along his wrists. Without warning, one of his wrists popped and Lance laughed through a groan. When the pain eased, Lance sighed and tilted his head, evening his breathing until another knot was finished. "No. Not that much."

"Do you _want_ to do this a lot?" Hunk pursed his lips. "Are these supposed to be that tight? You just _popped_."

Hunk was kneeled behind him with white rope clenched tight in both fists. Ankles and thighs already tied together, Lance was seated on his knees, eyes glazed from anticipation. He pressed his tongue against the back of his front teeth and waited for Hunk to finish. Hunk had taken a single glance at the instructions, nodded with a hum and shut the book without bothering to reference instructions again.

_Genius._

_This guy's an actual genius._

Wordlessly, his hair was grabbed and Lance was shoved forward.

Ass up and exposed, Lance breathed in the sheets and clenched his fists while trying to relax every other part of his body. He listened for the snap of the lube being opened, and as soon as it hit the hotel room's walls, Lance thought about breaking his lease and moving across country. He knew he was bored with his life.

Two thick fingers pushed inside and it stifled his breathing. He moaned on impact, on the sheer thought of Hunk touching him, and Lance knew he'd never been this attracted to a client before. He was rock hard, and every touch along his skin prickled with heat, send his brain spinning and cock twitching.

"Hunk, fuck…" Lance exhaled the word and ached to spread open his thighs. Hunk rocked his fingers in and out of Lance with stretching thrusts, lubed fingers scissoring him before being joined by a third. The slight burn made him roll back his shoulders, and he continued to pant while rocking back his hips the best he could.

The fingers in his hair disappeared, and a sharp clap rang against the left side of his ass. The hit knocked the breath from Lance, and his eyes widened at the spreading sting. As soon as the tingling softened, another whack followed and was accompanied by the soft _shlick shlick_ of three fingers fucking him open. Lance's moan pitched from the depths of his chest, and it cut in two when the fingers pulled from his body and were replaced by the head of Hunk's cock. Lance parted his lips to beg for it, to beg for Hunk to fuck him until he couldn't breathe, but Hunk reached for the rope behind his wrists and tugged them spine to chest.

"Oh, shit… _Hunk_ …"

Lance licked his bottom lip and hissed when the newfound position threatened to force the pressing cock inside. His body hugged the tip, straining to take it in, but Lance relaxed and Hunk suddenly glided inside with little give. Hunk's tongue swept from the curve of Lance's shoulder and to the man's earlobe, his husky groan soft against his jawline as Lance exhaled his name. There he sucked with his fevered breathing climbing its way inside of Lance's head, and Lance couldn't help but lift his hips and drop them.

The bed creaked in restraint, gaining tempo as Lance looked over his shoulder for a kiss. The older man didn't deny him, and Lance only pulled from the burning kiss, the zealous sucks along lips and tongues, to chant his name. The chant fell into a series of choked murmurs that Hunk answered without fail.

"More," Lance begged, shame pooling across his chest in red blotches. The undignified _thwack_ of skin hitting skin had long since left Lance hard, and he was pained by the fact he couldn't touch himself.

"Can you take more?" Hunk teased and reached for Lance's chin. His thumb swept along Lance's bottom lip and Lance sought another kiss only to breathe out a sharp grunt.

"I want you to come inside," Lance whispered against Hunk's chin.

Hunk's timing didn't waver, his labored breathing suddenly escaping a smile. "Dude, don't say that. Be smart about this. You're smart."

"I still want it. I _really_ want it."

The idea of Lance taking him bare inspired Hunk, his thrusts becoming pointed enough they nailed the single spot inside Lance that could make him stop talking. Lance ground his teeth together and savored that invasive sting that made him drool on himself, but Hunk's fingers closed around Lance's cock and forced Lance's words to tumble out again. His cries pried at the hotel door and entered the hall, and with a sudden break in composure, Lance opened his clenched fists with an undignified mewl. Hunk pointedly jerked him, attuning the rhythm to their thrusting, and he grunted in appreciation when Lance proved to have broken down.

"There we go, Lance. You're doing so well." Hunk's hand made a path up Lance's curved spine and Lance settled the back of his head against the man's shoulder. He arched against him, trying to fuck himself into Hunk's hand. "Close, huh? I can always tell when you're getting close. You can't hide it… You're so honest…"

Lance's words scattered in his attempt to defend himself. His navel drew inward, and his lips parted as the oncoming heat scorched his insides, forced his balls closer to his body. Lance shook his head in refusal because coming first went against his code, but Hunk wanted it. Seeing Lance unfurl wove him with his own satisfaction Lance fought to give into. It didn't help they enjoyed fighting one another.

"Lance," Hunk whispered against his temple, half-smiling, half-furrowing his brow in his build up. "Lance, you're gonna come right now."

"No, no… _oh_ , God, no…"

_Yes, yes, yes._

"For me, Lance. This is just for me."

The bombshell split in the molten core of his system. Lance shook his head in defiance as his breathing broke, thick ribbons spilling onto Hunk's hand and creating a slate of dewy white along his fingers. Lance's groan charred his throat, and he panted with the crackling repetition of Hunk's name hot on his tongue.

Lance's unabashed display and clenching body was all Hunk needed to buck upward and finish. That husky startled breath in his ear made Lance wish he had stamina for more. He always wanted more.

He broke every rule. He kissed Hunk until the final threads of breath made his lungs scream, and he berated himself for every soft moment in between Hunk's tough grips and pulls.

_Just friends._

_Just really good friends._

Afterwards, they sat in the hotel tub with beer and listened to music.

"I'm not skating today."

"Yikes," Hunk said and cleared his throat. He subtly wiggled his nose to fight the flush across his face. "Was it that rough?"

"Yeah," Lance said and took a swig. "Thank God."

### VIII.

He feels his heart in his teeth.

" _I'm leaving soon."_

" _I know. This weekend."_

" _Hasn't this sort of felt like a dream? Like, it's real, but it's totally one of those things you'd read in a $1 novel from some sidewalk sale."_

" _You read romance novels."_

_A pause swells around them._

" _Do you have a passport?"_

It's funny how things happen, Lance decides.

One minute he's heating ramen noodles with Hunk's voice pressed between his shoulder and ear ("I can cook a mean bowl of ramen. That sodium's gonna kill you.") and then the next he's sitting on a plane and on his way to watch a man surf in Taghazoute for an unspecified amount of time. He's conscious of the fact it's swept up in immediacy, but that doesn't stop Lance from letting the money trickle into his account, nor does it take him away from willingly divulging all he can about his mother, father, sister and brothers. He discusses where he was born, his dual citizenship and he tells him about how long he's wanted to be a professional skater.

Hopes and dreams; Lance knows this is how a man can take him by the balls.

Again, this doesn't stop him. Hunk embodies a kind of approachability that's laced with practicality. He understands his place in the world but – ' _Only because I once knew nothing about myself_. _Couldn't tell you what was up or down_.'

Lance knows nothing about himself except what he wants. Forever he believed that meant he knew who he was. Hunk teaches him there's more to being human than that.

" _Who are you, Lance McClain?"_

After sleeping with his face pressed to Hunk's bicep on a plane, he finds himself seated on a cool beach with a beer between his knees and a sense of impossibility blanketing him. He's exhausted, but Hunk isn't interested in sleeping just yet. Rather than sleep, he's running toward the waves, shouting friendly orders that Lance learn how to surf, too. He claims Lance will love it. He says it's like flying. He promises skaters are good surfers but not exactly mutually exclusive. He doesn't stop talking until he's belly-down on his board.

"Flying, buddy!" he calls out over his shoulder.

_Buddy._

Lance waggles his beer at Hunk and watches him paddle out into the thrashing water. In front of them is a pink sun, and it is only seconds later that Lance is hovering the bottle beneath his chin and staring onward. He knows humans are capable of fascinating things, but as Hunk strokes toward the swell, climbing a wall of water that could instantly crush him if it thought to drop, he isn't sure how human Hunk is anymore.

It's in his heart, but Lance can't explain the feeling. He's overwhelmed.

Human.

_I wouldn't want to be anything else._

He wakes up to mornings that hang in the air like bowls of fruit. It's citrus and it's refreshing, and on his third day there, Hunk buys him a surfboard. He wakes up to the blue present beside his closed bedroom door. There's a note attached written in Hunk's perfectly geometric penmanship, and Lance reads it twenty times.

_Fly high with me, Ultramarine._

– _Hunk_

There's a beach with calm waves. They're small and Lance doesn't imagine himself dying when he sees them curve in on themselves. He thinks, for some reason, he can do this. Hunk spends thirty minutes teaching Lance how to paddle out on the sand, how to jump up and duck dive or turtle roll. When he's certain Lance understands how to recover from a wave breaking overhead, they walk toward the ocean. There's a vernacular, a learning curve Lance makes Hunk walk him through.

The first time Lance and Hunk step into the water, Lance is in a black wet suit with blue stripes down his thighs. Hunk is matching but his color is yellow. Lance eats shit in the beginning, but once his balance has established itself, he understands what Hunk means by 'flying.' It's the closest thing to being off the ground he'll ever be. The ocean reaches deep, deeper than any bowl he's dropped into and it's a newfound sense of existing.

"I didn't die!" Lance yells, flicking back his hair.

He lifts both fists and Hunk returns the gesture.

"A big _yeah_ to not being murdered by the ocean!"

Lance lowers his fist and shoots finger guns at a churning wave. The mist brushes past them, and he laughs as they bob along the water. "I could do that again. If I wasn't tired I'd do it now."

"You're a natural," Hunk assures him and glides his hand through the air like a wave. "Give it a few months and you'll be climbing ten footers."

Lance sweats.

It becomes compulsive. Whenever Lance isn't skating through the village alongside Hunk, they're on the beach with Hunk's friends, grilling and drinking themselves into their own content stupors. He's introduced to them as an up and coming pro skater. He's introduced to them as Hunk's friend and not the person making a throat-closing amount of money to simply be there.

In private, Hunk kisses him like they've been dating since the birth of the universe. It's rare for Hunk to remove his attention from Lance, but when Hunk's phone rings, Lance understands the atmosphere is about to shift.

" _Dad, stop. It's fine. If you'd look at the paperwork I had overnighted to you then – Right, right. I'm not – I'm internally screaming right now, but I'm not actually yelling."_

" _You know what those numbers said. If they go down, then disown me or something. Sorry – that was harsh. Don't tell Mom. Stop laughing."_

" _I'll be home in a couple weeks for judging. I've got my hands full here. We can go over the records then. I'm not picking my nose here, okay? The only thing that's getting picked is my wetsuit out of my – "_

"He calls a lot," Lance observes while helping Hunk cut onions.

Hunk kisses his temple and shrugs. "It's his job."

He tries to hide it, but Lance understand Hunk isn't good at masking emotions. If Lance is one thing, then it's inwardly intuitive. Outwardly, well, he isn't sure how to hold himself.

Lance watches Hunk toss the chopped onions into a pan, and he eats his thoughts.

" _I have to go back to my dad's, but I'll visit next month. Count on it."_

" _Don't worry too much about it if you can't. I know you've got your own thing."_

" _Aren't you worried?"_

Lance is terrified.

### IX.

And he missed him.

Lance instantly missed him. The idea of missing a client wove its way through his ribs, kept his coffee pot going into the AM. Whenever Hunk messaged him, Lance knew the time difference was a nonissue.

Keith had been quiet too, but Lance soon learned why.

" _That surgeon I told you about? I think he likes me for more than my ass."_

" _God doesn't give with both hands, Keith. Something smells fishy."_

" _Yeah… Yeah. You're right."_

Hypocrite.

Hunk returned three weeks later, and Lance sprinted across the airport to him. Skateboard attached to his back, he shamelessly swung his arms around Hunk's neck, greeted by a loud 'buddy' that was followed by a hard sway. Hunk buried his face into Lance's neck, and for reasons Lance didn't understand, he laughed.

"It's been a three weeks," Lance said, feeling like it'd been a lifetime. "We've got to be cool. Be cool."

"Not a chance," Hunk said and kissed him hard, kissed him surrounded by the public.

They got dinner. They fucked until both Lance and he couldn't move. They didn't leave one another's side. It was an obsession Lance couldn't bring himself to correct. His clientele was slipping. His heart was slipping.

"You'd like Hawaii," Hunk said while seated at the indoor skatepark, sucking back one of the Slurpees Lance had promised he'd become a fast fan of.

"I like anywhere that's got some sun. I already miss surfing. That shit is addictive." Lance stepped onto his board and skated backward in front of Hunk. "Maybe I can save up and go sometime."

"Maybe," Hunk said and leaned back on a palm. His features softened, and Hunk's shoulders sank as soon as Lance dropped into the bowl, the sound of wheels scraping cement filling the unfinished conversation.

" _Let's make this a thing. Every three or four weeks I'll come back. If I take a bigger trip, then come with me. My friends asked about you again. You're in."_

" _That's a lot of cash, dude. I couldn't."_

" _It's totally weird. I get it, but come on. Do it if you want to. It's no skin off your back."_

He couldn't say no.

For once, Lance couldn't.

It was six whirlwind months later when Hunk sat down across from Lance and pushed a stack of papers toward him. They were seated outside of Lance's favorite pizza place, chewing through triple cheese and drinking the ever present glass of beer when Lance glanced downward. Across the top he read the Nar header and company logo. He'd grown familiar with it over the past weeks, knowing them through exposure to business documents.

"Don't take this like a bribe," Hunk started, having clearly thought his disclaimer through. "You know, you've been building some traction with those competitions lately, and I might have mentioned you to a few people in passing more than once. I might've sent them a video or two. Maybe showed them your stats."

Lance didn't compute. He continued to chew. "Is this an interview or something?"

Hunk dug out a pen from his jacket and underlined a single word. He cleared his throat and then pushed the paper toward Lance. Looking away, he nervously tapped the pen against the table's edge.

SPONSORSHIP

Lance set down his pizza and wiped his hand on a crumpled napkin. He snatched up the paper with a muttered ' _Hunk_ ' and bore his stare at the single word.

"Dude, I…"

"You're really good at what you do. I think the only thing that's holding you back is like – you're scared. It's cool to be scared. It's normal, but it can't rule the roost, man."

Lance clenched both sides of the contract, fingers aching from the buildup in his knuckles. He sniffed back and rapidly blinked before lifting the paper to hide his face.

"Give me the pen."

"Read it first," Hunk advised, face propped up in a single hand and eyes warm as he read Lance's body language. "You might want to see the numbers."

Lance flipped to the next page. After he read, he pressed his forehead into his propped up palm and sank. With the contract still shielding his face, Lance's shoulders shook. He inhaled hard. He cried.

### X.

In high school, Lance read the word 'tacit' in a book of poetry. Due to thoughtless ingestion, he'd misinterpreted it as 'tactic,' and like so many other abused words, Lance seamlessly rode along the wrong definition without reason to reconsider its meaning. It was years later that he ran across 'tacit' again. For some reason, it'd stood out to him in an abandoned novel he'd found on the bus. Lance had thumbed it open, realized his semantic error and stored the corrected information for a later date, pushing his embarrassment's head under water. It was one of those minute facts like how many zeros are in a centillion (303) or that an ATM weighs between 150-250 pounds. He wanted to use 'tacit' for something.

Unfortunately, he used it with Hunk.

He was in a _tacit_ romance, but somehow, the word _tactic_ still applied. The words weren't mutually exclusive outside of his case, but whenever he looked to Hunk, he found himself strategizing.

_Be careful how to enunciate that syllable, and don't expect him to get your jokes. Act like you're listening and stay out of your head. There's nothing that interesting there._

Hunk talked, and he talked well. It wasn't often Lance wasn't lulled by his stories about the North Shore or his trips to Jeffrey's Bay and Siargao Island. He repeatedly talked about how he was terrified with every swell, but the respect he carried for nature's sublime overrode it with the mutuality he felt for the ocean. One second he was discussing his encounters with razor-sharp coral, paling at the memory and asking for another beer, and then the next he was dissecting reef ecology and seeking Lance's opinions.

"I wanted to go to space," Lance uttered the words more to himself than Hunk. They were distant, almost like he'd unearthed treasure. "Kid stuff, you know?"

Hunk was interested. "The ocean and space are a lot alike. They polarize, but they meet in the middle."

He wondered what his life would have been like if he'd thought to do something other than skate, something unquestionably stable. Lance had set his heart on one thing, and because that one thing promised so little, his life hadn't stopping humming. It was the wings of a panicked hummingbird beating itself against his ribcage and suffocating inside his body. All Lance had ever done was want. He didn't want to accept that someday he might have wanted for no reason. He didn't want what was happening to stop.

But still, what if it did? What would happen to him if this wave crashed too soon?

"The ocean is a part of space," Lance said after picking at his plate of sushi.

"Space is a part of the ocean."

Lance parted his lips, and he knew there wasn't anything he could do to counter that. The logic there wasn't entirely right or wrong, but he knew space was bigger than any ocean.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Hunk said.

He set down his chopsticks. "Hit me with it."

"I want to tell my dad about you."

The restaurant's chatter filled the plot Lance's pause had cleared. He licked the corner of his mouth and pressed his thumb to it, wiping up the small wet spot and turning his gaze to think. Hunk was assessing his face, and Lance fought to show his hand to Hunk. That was the error between them. Hunk's cards were on the table and Lance protected his, kept them pressed to his chest in hopes of saving his best move.

"That's big," Lance said.

"It is, yeah – but that's how I feel about you. It's big. I know big. I've dropped from a helicopter into the ocean to ride a hundred-foot wave kind of big."

_Why can't I breathe?_

"Do you think he'll be okay with it?"

"Not at first, but he loves me. I'm a grown man. It'll be fine. You're worth it anyway."

_I can't breathe._

"I don't know about that," Lance murmured and ran his hands through his hair, unable to give Hunk eye contact. He quirked an eyebrow. "You've got a lot of things that're worth a lot."

"It's you and the ocean, Lance."

### XI.

Hunk leaves him with a kiss that's comfortable, no longer entrenched in the attempt to impress someone. This man is his partner in everything but name, and for him to pretend otherwise feels like a backhand across the face.

That said, Lance's heart can't take it.

His apartment is suddenly sweltering, the seasons having changed from frigid to damp and stifled. Hunk is yet to see it, which is more of a demand on Lance's part than a request from Hunk. Naked and seated at his kitchen table, Hunk plans on coming back in three weeks, which means Lance has three weeks to spin wheels.

It starts in his chest, thumping hard enough to make his throat tight. Lance rushes his fingers through his hair and sets his phone down in front of him.

IT'S NOT GOING TO WORK OUT

He doesn't know why those words emblaze themselves across his exposed chest, but they do. They brush across his hands and his palms become chilled, damp. Lance stands and strides over his laundry piles, through the thickets of his own apartment's filth that he keeps promising his mother he'll disinfect.

NOTHING WORKS OUT

The air in his lungs is becoming thinner. He's suddenly on another planet, and Lance kneels beside the tub to spin the faucet to life. He tells himself it'll be fine. Hunk is going to come back from his trip next week, and when he comes back, they'll figure out where they go from there. The good things in life take time, and he knows he'll be fine. He wants things to work out. He wants thing to go his way.

He's fine.

He has a sponsorship made of dreams.

He's going to be fine.

He has a sinking feeling he might love Hunk.

He's going to be fine.

Lance plops himself down into the steaming tub, and he presses his face to his palms as he attempts to control his breathing. It shakes in his chest. It's too soon to love someone. It's not real.

His phone buzzes on the stool that's collected beer cans and an overflowing ashtray. The text message is from one of three people; his mother, Keith or Hunk. Not wanting to take chances on seeing something from his mother or Hunk, Lance reaches for his phone and opens the Pal-and-Din app. He stares at the home screen.

As soon as he enters, the app lets his client list know he's online. It's five minutes and he's swamped with requests, the highest bids he's seen next to Hunk's grandiose giving.

_Why would you bother answering?_

_What can these guys give you that Hunk hasn't already?_

_Don't._

A part of Lance's brain concaves. He answers a message.

> **@m-80:** sure. just let me know when and where.

### XII.

SELF-SABOTAGE

He was happy.

There was no refuting the fact, but Lance didn't acknowledge it as he woke on his side beside a man twice his age with two children waiting for him at home. He cleared his throat and pressed his palm to his forehead as he thought about how hard he'd have to scrub to remove the shame from his forearms. Shame not from the work at hand, but mostly, from the work he'd put into taking the twig of trust he'd hand cut and breaking it over a knee. On spot, as he grabbed his shirt from the end of the bed, he decided what Hunk didn't know couldn't hurt him. He could take that beating in the dark. He could hate himself enough for Hunk.

"Are you leaving already?"

He laughed, following words hollowed. "Out by dawn. You know."

"I'll drive you home."

"Cool."

Life is cruelly designed. It's insensitive. Secrets can't be kept.

The sky was hazed over by wet fog when Lance stepped out of the minimalist apartment complex. Smoking with a cup of coffee in hand, he didn't gauge his surroundings solely because he knew it was an end of town where no one would know him. He blearily blinked, barely noting the stranger across the street with a white forelock and a man at his side who looked suspiciously like Keith, and then reached to fix his beanie as the car pulled around.

"Lance?"

Lance stopped at the familiar voice. His gut snapped like a broken elevator and collapsed between his feet with a fatal crash. The wreckage was immediate. The death was on impact.

Dressed down in a RVCA top and shorts, Hunk stood at the end of the sidewalk. Lance's lungs iced over, his eyes shaking at the realization that he'd been caught for no reason other than karmic instinct. Hunk had a week before he was supposed to return, and if he was ever able to come back early, then Lance was the first to know.

He breathed out. Lance knew he had to play it off. He cleared his throat and brightened his demeanor. "Whoa, dude. What're you doing back so soon? You didn't even throw me a call – "

Lance shooed the car on ahead, and his patron gestured with an aggravated face. Perceptive Hunk, Intelligent and Knowing Hunk, gazed onward at Lance with an expression solid in its unmoving defeat.

"Don't," Hunk said, stepping back and lifting his palms before Lance could even be within reach.

"Hunk, listen, it's not as bad as it looks. I didn't…"

"I know you," Hunk said, the words tight. He pushed his fingers through his recently cut back hair. "But I didn't think you'd go this far…"

"What do you mean?" Lance stepped closer and his fingers lost feeling. Anger spiked in his growing tone. "What do you mean you _know_ me?"

"You know what I mean," Hunk snapped back, and he looked around to make sure no one was watching them. He leaned in, the hurt fighting a battle with his anger. "But _why_ – I have to ask you why you'd do it this time? I went back home to… I came back early because Dad was cool with it… I…" He closed his eyes, unable to finish. "You didn't need the money, Lance. You didn't need _anything_."

Caught red-handed and unable to save himself, Lance inhaled. "I don't… I just…"

Hunk wasn't going to let him have his words. "What's going to be enough for you?"

" _Who are you, Lance McClain?"_

" _I don't know yet."_

" _This sounds kind of lame and wishy-washy. Like, something you'd find in a fortune cookie, but it's usually easy to tell when you know what's enough for you. Like, what makes life enough."_

" _Skating would be enough."_

" _But what about human interaction?"_

A car sped past them and Lance threw away his coffee cup in the conveniently nearby trashcan. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his shoe.

"Because I don't think anything is enough, Lance. I don't think you want anything to be enough. What more – what more does someone like you need? You're smart, you're this ridiculously beautiful man and you're talented with a sponsorship, but this – you did this to…"

_You did this to us._

"You did this to yourself."

"Don't make it that simple," Lance snapped, but he didn't know what was coming out of his mouth. "You don't know why I'd do that or what – You've been paying me. You could've disappeared and then I'd be left with nothing, man. I can't live on that instability…"

"We were stable!" The yell caught Lance off guard, broke the front from his face like a hammer to glass. He tried to walk toward Hunk again who muttered 'stop' before finishing his thought. "I made it so that we were."

"I'm sorry," Lances said, but his words were weak.

"You're not."

For once, Hunk didn't have his facts straight.

Lance had never been sorrier.

In shock, Hunk shook his head and stepped back before turning over his shoulder. "I'm going home, Lance."

"No. You don't get to just… Talk to me…" Lance begged. He tried to follow after him, padding quickly and then jogging until he was at Hunk's side.

"We are _through_! My dad! I told my dad and everyone I know about you. I was willing to change everything for _you_. If you don't get out of my space, Lance! I swear to…."

_You're the space in the ocean as the ocean is in my space._

_Don't fucking leave me._

### XIII.

" _Keith, he's gone."_

" _Who's gone?"_

" _Hunk."_

" _What happened?"_

" _He's just gone."_

" _Fuck him then."_

Days.

Lance begins to count the days.

They're endless, hours running from his pores and his sense of self taking a nosedive with it. He's never engaged with as much shame before in his life.

Out of boredom or maybe out of some kind of internal defiance he's never known to be inside himself before, he buys canvas, he buys paint. He's a walking cliché. He's a sad boy who's painting because he ruined his own life. Lance can count on both hands how many people he's made fun of for doing exactly what he's doing.

But he doesn't care.

He's not Keith, and he's not Shiro. He's not Hunk, and he's not Pidge.

Lance snaps a mask onto his face, shakes a can of spray paint. Before he presses his index finger to the button of the yellow can, he grabs his phone. Lance stares at the app glaring back at him and sharply inhales before he deletes it. With the app gone, his phone feels lighter, but he still chucks it across the room and into the bathroom.

It lands into the bathtub with a dead splash.

_"That's not a boyfriend, Keith. That's not even a fucking husband. We've got a word for that here, you know? What you've got is the ripest, juiciest, sweetest slice of sugar daddy we've ever seen, and you're gonna ruin it the second he thinks you're emotionally available."_

Keith is falling in love, and he's falling apart.

He's not surprised.

### XIV.

It was half a year later, months of radio silence without a word from Hunk, when Lance finally came clean to Keith Kogane who was on the cusp of becoming Keith Shirogane. It was a sudden confession.

" _What do you mean you fucked it up? You told me he fucked it up."_

" _I didn't mean to."_

" _Lance, what did you do?"_

"I love him." Lance raked his hands down his face. "I loved him."

Keith leaned in. "You wouldn't want something good for you if it smacked you in the face."

"Most people don't want things that smack them, but define good. Tell me what's good, Keith."

"Shiro," Keith snapped, voice tightening on the name. No matter what he did, Keith kept the man close. "Shiro is good. _Hunk_ is good."

"Don't define good by the men who…"

"Who what?" Keith interrupted, words swathed with a glower. "Support our dreams and want to see us do well? He wanted you. He saw _you_. The things I did before—before Shiro—Lance, you were…"

… _so lucky._

Lance heard the end of that sentence.

"Yeah. Well, who told me to never let them know your dreams?"

Keith stopped, fingers catching the curve of his glass. His eyes flitted toward the trembling surface of his drink and Lance watched his pupils shake. Keith's thoughts took to the spinning wheel.

"You wear your heart on your sleeve," Keith explained. He exhaled in defeat. "You wanted more than sex work, and I was trying to keep you from getting trapped."

"Keith—"

"That's how it happens, Lance. You didn't want to be your own boss. You wanted something else. If you want it, then you want it. If you don't, then the cons outweigh the pros. It's a hard job."

They held each other's gaze, and as if sent by God, a key entered the door knob. The two men dissipated their tension, but the motes of that dusty cloud hung in the air, suspended. Shiro stepped inside, bag smacking against his hip and a ' _hey, babe_ ,' following. The stare off between Lance and Keith broke, but Shiro had caught the end of their recovery. He looked between the two men and strode to the kitchen island where Keith took a sip from his glass and leaned into the lips that met his temple.

"Everything okay in here?"

Shiro's protective streak split Lance like pressure on a cantaloupe. Keith managed a ' _yeah_ ,' and Lance realized he was intruding on a domestic hub he had no business witnessing. He shifted his shoulders back, righted himself, but before Lance could grab his phone and feign urgency, Keith spoke.

"Lance is staying over for dinner."

Lance thought about throwing a punch, but he lifted an eyebrow instead, pursed his lips. Shiro didn't dare contest Keith on the matter and pretended to be mostly relieved rather than concerned.

"You're cooking."

"Someone needs to put miles on your thousand-dollar range." Keith finished his drink and shook the ice. He tried to hide his smile. "Shiro couldn't cook if the universe depended on it. He'd burn a protein shake if he looked away from the blender too long."

Lance didn't recognize this Keith anymore. It wasn't just the Adidas sweats or the red V-neck replacing his faux-fur crop tops and leather boy shorts. His happiness was individual. This wasn't to say Keith wasn't happy before, but this was the kind of contentment entirely singular to well-balanced romance. Lance couldn't tell if the roil in his stomach was jealousy or the mourning of a bygone era. He wanted to be happy for Keith. Something told him Keith would've approved of his partnership with Hunk, but Keith always managed to do more than him, and if not more, then he did whatever they jointly did but better. Love or sucking someone's dick; Keith excelled. Lance couldn't imagine having a smart fridge or boyfriend who looked at him like he'd just watched the birth of a star.

He'd told Keith to do this.

He wanted his best friend to be happy.

"There's a theory in the hospital that surgeons are stunted subhuman beings. Do you know how long our education lasts? Undergraduate, medical school, and you think you're done, but then residency happens for five years and suddenly you're in your thirties, can't flirt without using medical terminology and look at cup noodles with freezer vegetables like it's gourmet." Shiro grabbed a beer from the fridge, noticed Lance's was finished and handed him his before reaching for another. "I was saving lives, not scrambling eggs."

"He thinks scrambling eggs is a feat," Keith explained.

Lance cut Shiro an accusatory look, and he raised his bionic hand in surrender. "Tie me to the back of a horse and drag me through the mud after I've finished this beer."

Their normalcy was abstract to Lance.

He thought about it while trying to sleep on Keith's couch, cheek on his bicep and eyes overlooking the Garrison hospital distract, watching cars tiredly curve toward the interstate.

"Awake?"

Keith appeared in the living room like an apparition but Lance only shrugged. He'd turned off his phone to keep himself from greeting the temptation to work once Shiro and Keith went to bed, so it was a mystery to him as to how Keith assumed he'd be awake. Lance supposed no one knew him better except maybe his mother and Hunk.

The weight of a body appeared on the cushion by his feet. Keith's hand held his ankle, and Lance curled into himself, swiping his fingers through his hair.

"Call him," Keith said, words earnest. "You need to call him."

"I can't after what I did. If you'd seen his face, Keith."

"I've seen what indecision can do to a person," he admitted and then stood to kneel down beside Lance's head. Keith reached for his friend's hand and clasped it. They mutually squeezed and their hemp red and blue friendship bracelets brushed. "Why did you do it if you loved him? You need to explain to yourself why. If you don't know, then you'll do it again. You'll keep fucking yourself."

"Nothing goes right," Lance said. His voice bubbled up his throat, and he fought the tears with a shaking head. He didn't dare look at Keith. His pride was thin enough. "Nothing has ever gone right. Not my schooling, not my fucking skating, and then when I finally had something that could go right? I knew I couldn't handle the disappointment of it going wrong again. I couldn't do it again, Keith."

"Disappointment is a part of life. The best people are the ones who've been disappointed more than the rest but never quit. You can't stop your life because it hasn't always gone your way. You _make_ your way."

Lance cleared his throat and tried to chuckle through his oncoming sob. "Since when did you become such a sage?"

"I've had some help."

"Shiro's a good guy."

"I love him a lot."

" _Let Shiro and me buy you a plane ticket. It's the least we can do considering what you did for us."_

" _I didn't do anything for you two."_

" _Shut up. We're getting married because of you."_

### XV.

The trajectory of life is poorly reflected like a face on a lapping wave.

These are thoughts that you eat while dwelling in a chilled apartment on what you might consider the wrong coast. For Lance, the whole world had become chill. Not the rad kind, but that kind that gets diagnosed as SADD and dilutes into something lesser, blurrier, like clouds rolling low across the ocean.

He blinked through this haze as he packed his bag, but he barely saw anything during his endless plane ride, the layover where he drank whiskey after ugly turbulence or check-in at his mid-range hotel that had still cost him the final sips from his dying savings.

" _If he talks to you, then you should ask him to go to your gallery opening. Shiro and I want to meet him, and he was kind of the muse there."_

" _I don't think I could deal with him seeing it."_

" _I think he'd be flattered."_

It was only when he stepped onto his hotel room's balcony and felt the sun, watched the ocean he hadn't stepped into since Hunk had stepped out of his life, did color wind itself back to Lance. He was on the island of Oahu, located in central Pearl City, and all he could think about was how this was where Hunk had been raised.

Not just been raised, but this was where Hunk had fallen in love with the ocean and been raised to see the world as a massive love affair Lance had challenged with suffocation.

Breathe.

Why couldn't he let anything breathe?

Through some savvy internet usage aka Google, Lance and Keith had located Hunk's next competition. Lance had pointedly wanted one where Hunk was judging and not competing himself, which proved easier than he expected in terms of surfing. It was the Volcom Pipeline Pro located along the Banzai Pipeline, and Lance figured he could watch until Hunk was finished and then track him down for a one-on-one conversation.

Hunk had once told him that the second half of the North Shore's winter season created the best break on the planet. Lance trusted this opinion, knowing Hunk himself was considered an international heavyweight surfer, but he didn't believe it until the morning of Pipeline, at the crack of dawn where the sun dug itself into the blue swells and reflected through like a noncommittal gem. It was blazing orange on an expanse of ocean Lance had never conceived as possible, and with his coffee in hand, he slowly lowered himself onto the sand to watch.

He had no way of knowing when Hunk would arrive or where he was.

Lance settled on being a spectator, watching surfer after surfer drop in until he missed his skateboard. Two water bottles and sunbaked shoulders later, he found himself thinking about nothing but Hunk.

He reached for a sketchbook and leaned over the creamy pages scattered with sand. Lance began to aimlessly draw the figures around him, thinking about how Hunk had been disappointed to find out he put nothing to canvas. This lasted for hours until the competition came to a soft close full of applause and cheers from the onlookers and competing professionals. Some names he'd recognized from his time with Hunk, but any faces he knew he didn't dare approach. He couldn't imagine what had been said.

The crowed filtered out, and Lance stood with his bag on his hip, eyes finally allowing themselves to drift toward the judging table hidden beneath a protective marquee.

Hunk was there, hair cut back even more since he'd last seen him. Lance's body rushed with a familiar warmth that had once been so pleasant and its own kind of adrenaline. Now it was swamped with fear.

_Now or never, you fucking loser._

With the threat of Hunk disappearing, Lance strode through the crowd, feet slowed by the walk through shifting sands. He wanted to wait for Hunk to go somewhere less populated, but his heart didn't have the time. He'd waited long enough. As the table came closer, Lance lost all sense of feeling, time. This was the right thing to do.

"Hunk," Lance said.

Hunk knitted his brow, and his shoulders stiffened at the voice. Even months later, even after one of his biggest disappointments, Hunk hadn't shaken the memory of Lance's voice. It was fresh.

He cleared his throat, and after hesitation, looked to Lance. There was a moment before he managed a thought. "Look, I know I've been in the sun all day, but I'm pretty sure I'm looking at Lance McClain."

"Uh, yeah. You're looking at Lance McClain."

"The one and only."

There was a notion of silence, but Lance shook his head before it could create its own swell and break on top of them. He ignored the bustle, not caring who saw, and Lance strode forward. He reached for the front of Hunk's tank top and shamelessly held him in spot, face turning away as he summoned the will to believe he'd come this far just to talk to one person. Hunk directed his attention downward, his anger having softened over their months apart. There wasn't the expected grip on his wrists or shove apart.

"I know what's enough," Lance suddenly said, words full of surprise as if he hadn't expected to hear them himself. "I don't want you to forgive me, but I think I know what would be enough."

Hunk cleared his throat and his expression softened even more. He shifted his face to the side and exhaled with a quick ' _oh, man_.' Lance tried not to laugh. He knew he didn't have long to say his piece.

"Enough is when you wake up in the morning and it's all there. Enough is knowing 'all there' is like – it's like – when I woke up beside you for the first time and my first thought wasn't about running, fleeing. I've always wanted to run, Hunk, even if what I'm running from might be really good. I'm not like you. I'm not brave like you. Waves scare the hell out of me. Big, awesome waves that want to kill you or give you the best ride of your life? I don't see the ride. I see bodies on rocks, man. Well, saw. I didn't see the ride, not until I met you."

"Lance…"

"Someone told me you're _good_. You are The Good. The biggest good I'll ever know." Lance swiped his nose and swallowed the lump in his throat. He warred against his need to choke. "And you are good. I want to be half as good. I will spend the rest of my life trying to be half as good as you are, Hunk."

Lance didn't mean to, but his tears dripped down in heavy droplets. The surroundings soon trickled like watercolors, and he could feel that ache in his sternum glowing. It was the same sensation he'd once thought was singular to skating and surfing. That horrible rush that told him he'd enjoy it for the rest of his life.

Hunk waited. He waited to see if Lance was done.

"You are good, Lance."

The words were spring water, salt-less. Something about Hunk's even tone revitalized him, brought Lance back from whatever place he'd been for months. Lance shook his head, but Hunk sighed and gingerly caught both sides of his head to hold him still. He made Lance look at him and shifted his mouth to the side, searching his face, knowing how to read the man for lies and facts.

"I've messed up," Hunk admitted. "Long before you, I wasn't at my best. I didn't like myself at all and before you ask me who does, then – well, there's more of us out there than you think, but we've worked pretty hard to get to where I am. I hurt a lot of people who didn't want to forgive me for being a nervous wreck, and in the same way, you did to me what I did to others. I get it, but I'm still upset. You broke my heart, man…"

"I know. I didn't…"

"You didn't mean to," Hunk said, the knowingness honest and not condescending. "It's kind of a lame way to explain yourself, but again, I get it. Sometimes we do things that aren't based in logic. I don't think anyone gets it until they've been there." Hunk dropped his gaze. "You know I love my sciences. I love knowing why things happen, but sometimes I think I like the parts of us science doesn't vouch for even more. Maybe that's why I'm in love with you. I don't think there's a single formula in my old research notes that could lead to why I want this, especially after what happened. It makes me feel kind of stupid, but…"

Hunk continued to hold Lance's face as quiet settled around them. Lance didn't know what to say. Some part of him told him to leave. Another part of him insisted her dig his feet into the sand. Hunk dropped his hands and then looked over Lance's shoulder at the ocean.

"…but I'm not stupid. I was right about you before. I'll be right about you again."

"It can't be that simple."

"It's not, but I think it can become less complicated. I think you want it to be less complicated," Hunk said, words even and clean with just the saddest smile. There was a warning there. It was the promise that Lance wasn't forgiven, but he was welcome. Hunk gestured around them, at his friends and acquaintances, at the general surroundings that he called home. "Did you bring your board?"

The corner of Lance's mouth hooked upward. "No. I'm surprised I made it this far."

"Don't stress. We'll get you one."

Hunk reached for Lance's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, letting the hold drag to his bicep before calling out to his friend for a longboard. The board appeared on call, and Lance noted it was blue.

"I've got to get in the water _now_. When did you last surf?"

"The last time I was with you."

Hunk paused and gave a startled laugh. "Sounds rusty, dude. Let's do this then. Gotta get in there before the sun sets, you know? Can't risk anything after what just happened here. This is a wave I'm gonna wanna ride for a while. She's a big one. The best I've seen in ages."

They stride toward Hunk's jeep side-by-side, and Lance is beyond the point of speaking. He can't fathom Hunk's resilience, his ability to tolerate the weight of him.

"What've you been up to?" Hunk politely asked as they climbed the incline toward the parking lot.

He knew Hunk expected him to mention the app. "Uh, you know. Actually, I've got this gallery opening next month…"

Hunk smiled before Lance could finish.

"Can I see pictures?"

Lance decides it ends in the ocean and not a tub. It's bigger and yet somehow so much smaller and more concise. He's in the water, but this time he's on top.

When he dives deep, he's only diving with the frantic hope of resurfacing.

It's with the hope to ride another wave.


End file.
